


Bull in a China Shop

by perilouspage



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, everything will turn out okay i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-25 04:48:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3797272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perilouspage/pseuds/perilouspage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Iron Bull had been good at his job. Picking people apart, interpreting meanings, subtexts, and nuances, and getting at intentions; after years of practice, people were more like open books than puzzles to solve. Though his Ben-Hassrath title had been stripped from him along with his ties to the Qun, the ability to read a man was ingrained. He enjoyed flexing that particular muscle just as much as he did the physical ones, and one person in particular had definitely decided to give him a workout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Iron Bull had been good at his job. Picking people apart, interpreting meanings, subtexts, and nuances, and getting at intentions; after years of practice, people were more like open books than puzzles to solve. Though his Ben-Hassrath title had been stripped from him along with his ties to the Qun, the ability to read a man was ingrained. He enjoyed flexing that particular muscle just as much as he did the physical ones, and one person in particular had definitely decided to give him a workout.

 

Dorian Pavus, Bull had to admit, was proving a tough nut to crack. When he and Bull had met, Bull had seen something in Dorian, a hint of insecurity accidentally given away by his overblown narcissism. It didn’t mean that Dorian was hiding a nefarious plot or anything. Everyone had their personal demons, pun intended. Even so, the Bull was intrigued by the hinted depths, and he intended to figure the mage out.

 

Dorian had initially been bent on starting a rivalry, fueled by the traditional dog-and-cat dynamic their people shared. In that equation, Dorian was definitely the cat. He hissed and spat like one, and he had claws , throwing fire and lightning with ease. Lithe and dangerous. Bull liked it, to be honest, and subtlety wasn't his thing. He dropped the "well-polished staff" line more than once, and relished the way Dorian would draw himself up, indignant and blustering, before letting the comments go. Perhaps, Bull speculated, Dorian had just been thrown into a too -rancorous Southern crowd with too tight-laced a Tevinter upbringing. If Dorian needed loosening up, Bull could take care of that no-problem.

 

"Hmm," Bull rumbled. He rolled his neck and stretched, feeling the muscles of his bare back flex. Dorian was a few paces behind him, and Bull glanced back to catch the mage staring. Bull's movement caused Dorian's eyes to snap up to Bull's, a blush creeping across his tanned face. The whole exchange earned Bull a glare that he feared might actually set him alight.

 

"That's quite the stinkeye you've got going, Dorian."

 

"You stand there," Dorian responded with a flourish of his hands, "flexing your muscles like some beast of burden, with no thought save conquest!" His volume had gotten loud near the end, and the last word ended in a hiss as he no doubt remembered they were traveling with Lavellan and Varric, neither of which he wanted to hear him.

 

So  that  was how Dorian wanted to play. Bull allowed the rumble to return to his voice, stronger and more deliberate now. "That's right," he nearly purred, and Dorian's jaw audibly snapped shut. "These big, muscled hands could tear those robes off while you struggled, helpless in my grip." Bull slowed his gait, falling back to Dorian a bit, and pointedly made eye contact. "And as you gripped my horns... I. Would. Conquer. You."

 

Dorian stopped moving for a beat, two, three. The blush on his face spread to his ears, down his neck, and across the shoulder that his armor bared. An inarticulate "uhh" wheezed from his chest, followed by a slightly more angered, " what? "

 

Ahead, the boss had stopped to harvest a particularly large patch of embrium with Varric, unaware of the situation behind her. It gave Bull the time to turn and face Dorian fully. "I'm sorry," he said, "was that not where we were going there?"

 

" No! " Dorian squawked, eyes darting madly past Bull to see if Lavellan had heard. "It most certainly  was not! "

 

The response was difficult for Bull to read. The mage had started it, brought up Bull's physique. Was it the dominant attitude Bull advertised that Dorian disliked? Had he simply not wanted to let Lavellan hear him flirting? Or, had Bull read the situation wrong, and none of this was ever ending in sex from the start? Bull wanted to ask outright, but Dorian had already bustled ahead, chin jutting out and eyes set on a far point in the distance. Something twisted in Bull's gut, a feeling that he'd screwed up something big, and it settled in like an unwelcome houseguest as the envoy continued their unhurried pace through the Emerald Graves.

 

It was around two weeks later that Bull realized where his fault lie: he was missing several parts of Dorian's story. It should have been obvious, Bull chastised himself. It shouldn't have taken Dorian having a loose-lipped episode of drunkenness to clue Bull in.

 

Dorian had walked into The Herald's Grace Tavern already inebriated. He walked a bit unsteadily, and his face had taken on a strong rosy quality that contrasted with his bitter expression. Bull was smart enough to realize that his typical blustering confidence was for show, but he was still unsettled to see it stripped away. It was so prominent that he noticed it across the room, and he made quick work of inviting Dorian to come and drink with him. 

 

At that point in the evening, the only Chargers that remained in the tavern were Dalish, snoring softly a table away, and Krem, who'd been alternating flirting with the bard and the barmaid for at least two hours. Therefore, when Dorian pulled a stool up beside Bull, the two were effectively alone in their corner of the tavern.

 

"You alright, mage boy?" Bull asked. His tone was light, but he made sure to meet Dorian's eye and get the question through.

 

Dorian looked exhausted. His body language, limp and tired, screamed defeat. "I'd be better with another drink in me," he said.

 

"Ah," Bull replied, "Gotcha. I'll buy, tell me what you'll have."

 

"Something strong," Dorian replied. Bull  hollered over to a barmaid for a cask of Fereldan ale, which was probably as strong as it would get before they cracked open something dwarven. Dorian made a sound in his throat, something like a bitter scoff, but said nothing more until a large cup had been placed in his hands and he'd taken a long tug from it.

 

When he pulled the mug away from his lips, a dab of froth lingered on his mustache, and he didn't bother to wipe it away. "Do you remember Alexius' son?"

 

"Yeah," Bull replied. "Felix. The sick one, right?"

 

Dorian's eyes tightened. "Yes. He was blighted. It was a darkspawn attack, the same one that killed his mother." He took another long pull before continuing. "I got a letter today. He's dead. The blight finally caught up to him, or that's what his family thinks."

 

"What do you think?" Bull asked.

 

Dorian replied, "Felix was the reason I knew the Venatori were in Redcliffe. I believe they killed him, when they found out he'd been helping me." He'd been looking at Bull as he talked, but now he cast his gaze downward. "It's always been like that, ever since we were boys. He'd sneak me sweets from the kitchens while I was still studying under Alexius. I'd tell him, ' Don't get in trouble because of me.' 'I like trouble,'  he'd say." Dorian paused for breath, eyes damp, knuckles white on his mug. Then, he said, "It should have been me in Redcliffe, not him," and he downed the rest of the ale in one swig.

 

Bull scratched the base of his horns, unsure of what to do. Finally, he said, "But we'd be down a damn good mage if that'd happened." Dorian bowed his head and slumped further, and Bull immediately felt like an ass. "Look," he tried again, "I know losing someone you love is shit. I'm sorry."

 

Dorian seemed to pull up his defenses again, straightening just a bit. "We weren't together," he said, and his tone lacked its usual insistent bite. "He was just... a fine young man."

 

"Let me ask you something," Bull said, tone firm. "Do you 'Vints have something against...?" He trailed off, waving his hand between himself and Dorian.

 

"What exactly are you referring to? Men preferring the company of men, or hulking Qunari mercenaries making passes at handsome and prestigious Tevinter mages?"

 

Bull laughed and replied, "The first one.

 

Dorian's posture fell again, and he nearly lost his balance as he temporarily forgot that there was no back to the chair. Bull's arm darted out, ready to keep Dorian from braining himself on the wall, but the mage simply swatted at it halfheartedly until Bull dropped it. "No, they don't. As long as you're willing to hide it, pretend that you're normal, marry a nice woman, and produce heirs."

 

Suddenly, Bull understood. "And you wouldn't marry the girl they picked out for you," he said. Dorian shook his head. "And that's what made you leave."

 

"That," Dorian said, "among... other things." His face twisted, and his eyes grew sad again. He rubbed one hand over his face and mussed his mustache in the process. When he looked up, he flushed hot under the Bull's gaze. Bull didn't bother to ask what the "other" reasons had been, because Dorian looked disturbingly close to tears. Instead, Bull brought his hand to Dorian's shoulder, gripping and shaking it lightly.

 

"You've had enough for tonight," Bull said. "Get out of here before you're blackout drunk."

 

In response, Dorian made an uncoordinated move for the mug that Bull had been nursing in his far hand all evening. Bull clamored for it, but Dorian wobbled to his feet and out of Bull's grip, sloshing the ale as he brought it to his face and drank. He pulled it away with a gag. "This is awful," he whined, and yet he finished off the small bit that remained before wiping the sloshed ale from his chin with his forearm.

 

Bull grunted as he, too, rose to his feet. His ass tingled from having sat for too long, and he bounced on his feet to shake the feeling away. "You done now?"

 

Dorian raised a pointing hand, opened his mouth to respond, and hiccuped. "N- hic , no. I'll drink as mu -hic -uch as I damn well please."

 

They'd finally caught Krem's attention. The Charger sauntered to the usual hangout, cracking his neck and knuckles as he went. "Chief," he called, "we got a problem here?"

 

"No," Bull responded. "No problem. Dorian and I were just going."

 

Dorian stumbled towards Krem, and Bull caught him with one arm. "Let me be, you brute," he grumbled, but allowed himself to be coerced away from the impending conflict and towards the door.

 

"Pay the barkeep for me," Bull called as he left. Krem responded by flipping Bull off with one hand and digging into his pocket for money with the other. Satisfied, Bull threw one arm around an increasingly unsteady Dorian's shoulders, leading him out of the tavern and into the cool night air.

 

Once they were out, Dorian immediately lost his gumption. He leaned heavily into Bull's side, dragging his feet and stumbling without purpose.

 

When Bull could no longer guess what direction Dorian was trying for, he finally asked, "Where are we heading?"

 

"My study in the library," Dorian said, and hiccuped loudly. "Left some brandy there, I think."

 

Bull had to resist laughing at that. Not only was letting Dorian have more alcohol off of the table, but the idea of squeezing himself up those narrow staircases with a drunken Dorian in tow was comical at best, and humiliating at worst. "Yeah, that's not happening. Tell me where your quarters are."

 

"Fine. Its one of the rooms above the gardens, on the left side."

 

That would still require stairs. Thankfully, Bull knew how to get to that level by way of the kitchens, away from prying eyes in the main halls, and those particular staircases were much more accomodating. "That, I can do," Bull said. With perhaps a little more enjoyment than the situation should've allowed, he crouched and swept his arm behind Dorian's knees, hoisting him up and turning him so that he and Bull were chest-to-chest.

 

"Oh, what would my father say..." Dorian's quip trailed off as he breathed deeply and swallowed, staving off nausea. When he was sure he wouldn't vomit, he said, "Don't drop me."

 

"No worries," Bull assured, "I've got you." To aid his point, he squeezed Dorian's legs in his arm, and let his empty hand, the one missing fingers, skim lightly over Dorian's back.

 

Dorian squirmed and mumbled, but Bull simply adjusted the mage's weight and continued walking. It didn't take Dorian long to get comfortable; he slumped so that his cheek was on Bull's unbraced shoulder, hands tucked between their bodies and legs limp and spread. Bull felt as if he were carrying a young child, not only for the pose, but for the vulnerability of the situation. A sober Dorian would've kicked, screamed, and guarded his pride, and the trust that the drunken Dorian was placing in him was more than a little unsettling.

 

"Hey," Bull rumbled, "how much did you  drink before you came to the tavern?"

 

Dorian responded with gentle snore.

 

The stairs were a non-issue, as Bull rounded the outer wall of the kitchen and ascended the staircase there with ease. He passed only one person as he neared the private quarters, a small and sleep-deprived woman that Bull recognized as a kitchen hand. She kindly averted her gaze until she believed Bull wouldn't notice her staring, but he could feel the eyes boring into his back until he rounded the final corner and out of her sight. He wagered that rumors would be circling in healthy amounts by sunrise.

 

Finally, Bull came upon the hall of personal quarters. He stirred Dorian gently, whispering his name and shaking him until he groaned. Bull had to ask which door three times before Dorian competently told him, and by the time Bull had gotten the door open, Dorian was snoring again.

 

The room was very Dorian. The bed was neat, extra cushions piled over the red duvet. The wardrobe in the corner was thrown open, with outfits and accessories of all colors and levels of formality spilling out. The desk in the corner was piled high with books and papers. Bull even spied a large bottle of kohl, a tin of mustache wax, and a hand-mirror amongst the debris. 

The large window did look out over the gardens, dark and empty with the hour. Bull had to walk carefully, head ducked to avoid grazing the ceiling with his horns. When he reached the bed, he bent over it and arranged Dorian over the duvet, legs hanging off the end of the mattress.

 

"You're lucky you're so hot," Bull said, as he pulled the boots off of Dorian's feet and laid them on the floor. "Otherwise this would be degrading."

Dorian laughed weakly in response, pulling his feet up onto the bed. There was no way that the heavy leather armor was comfortable, but Bull doubted that he could undo the dainty clasps without breaking them, and he'd only been half-serious about tearing off Dorian's clothes earlier. Besides, Dorian had already curled onto his side, once again asleep.

 

"Sleep well," Bull said fondly. He resisted the urge to touch the mage, and instead left as quietly as he could, shutting Dorian's door as if he might break it. Now, he prayed, he could make it back to his own quarters before he was spotted by another nosy kitchen hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm not dead! This fic has been a while in the making, as I already have most of the second chapter written and ready to be edited, and the third chapter planned. The rating might go up, depending on how in-depth I decide to go with what I've got planned *theyhavesexandnooneissurprisedcough*
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!


	2. Chapter 2

When Dorian had mentioned "other reasons" for his departure from home, Bull truly had been curious as to what they were. Asking Dorian about it at the time would've been highly untactful, and in hindsight, any acquisition of that information was probably more than Bull should've asked for. It definitely filled in the pieces of Dorian's history that Bull had been missing, but now he nearly felt guilty for the ribbing he'd gotten in at the mage's expense. He wasn't sure that it was a fair trade-off.

 

The meeting with Dorian's father had been messy. They'd gone back to Redcliffe, to the tavern where Bull had met Felix months and months ago. The location alone was rough on Dorian, though he insisted that he could handle that part. Then came the presence of Halward Pavus, Dorian's less-than-affectionate father. Lavellan, the Bull, and Cassandra had gone to assist in case the meeting got hairy, but Halward came unarmed and unguarded. Somehow, that made Dorian all the more upset.

 

Bull didn't really  get parents. Qunari didn't have them, as he'd had to learn the hard way with his Tamassaran. What he did know about parents didn't match Halward. Parents were loving, supportive, protective. Halward was none of those things.

 

When Dorian spelled out his sexuality to Lavellan ( _"I prefer the company of men, as in sex," he bit out_ ), Halward begged him not to, shame dripping from his words.

 

"That's what all of this is about?" Lavellan asked. She almost seemed like she couldn't believe it, face somewhere between anger and confusion. "Who you sleep with?"

 

"That's not  all  its about," Dorian replied, eyes never leaving his father's face.

 

Halward looked ready to be sick. "Dorian,  please don't-"

 

Dorian simply spoke louder. "He was the one who told me to hate blood magic, said it was the result of a weak mind! But what was the  first thing  you did when your precious heir refused to play pretend?" Halward said nothing, and Dorian pushed on, tears welling in his eyes. "You... you tried to...  change me.  Anything for your  fucking legacy,  right?"

 

At that point, he truly began to cry, a few fat tears rolling down his cheeks. His teeth were bared in an angry sneer, and his shoulders trembled as he fruitlessly tried to force the tears to stop flowing. Bull's chest squeezed, anger pooling hot and uncomfortable in his stomach. He could only imagine the ritual Halward had tried to torture Dorian with; and then he was pushing out images of Dorian, soaked in blood of his own and that of sacrifices, left forever damaged all because of his father's desire for  the perfect son . If Bull had his way, we would've leapt across the table that separated the Pavuses and himself and strangled the life from Halward with his own hands, but Lavellan was infinitely more level-headed than he. She urged Dorian to speak with his father, who was spewing some bullshit about forgiveness.

 

Cassandra, as quick-tempered as she was, still had the good sense and foresight to grab Bull by the bicep and steer him out of the tavern. He let himself be pulled, resisting the urge to flip Halward off as he left. Soon after, Lavellan joined them. She leaned on the outside of the door, no doubt listening for signs of violence. None came. Bull paced restlessly, and both women watched him like hawks even when he promised he wouldn't try to kill Halward (or, at least, not today).

 

When Dorian finally emerged from the tavern, he'd postured himself as if he was meeting the Empress of Orlais, not a group of concerned friends. Though his eyes were red and puffy from crying, the kohl around them smeared beyond redemption, his face  dared the company to try and console him. With a haughty, "I'm ready to go now," he strode smoothly past them and towards the stable where they'd tied up their mounts.

 

Their journey back to Skyhold took four days. Four icy, awkward, pained days of near-silence. The horses strode in a two-by-two block, and Bull was directly behind Dorian, stuck staring at his ramrod-straight back. The company set up camp late and rose early, and though Bull and Dorian shared a tent, Bull didn't see the mage at all until they'd re-mounted and continued the journey onwards in the mornings. Dorian told Lavellan that he was always an early riser, but the darkness around his eyes, despite the lack of kohl, told Bull that he simply hadn't slept.

 

On the third day of silence, Bull had had enough. He broke the caravan's formation by pulling his horse to Dorian's left side. Lavellan, on Dorian's right, smoothly fell back, smiling and nodding at Bull as she did so.

 

"Dorian," he called. "You alright? I know family shit can be rough."

 

"What would you know about it?" Dorian snapped, only sweeping his eyes to Bull momentarily. "True Qunari don't have families."

 

Bull snorted in frustration. "Finding out you don't fit in with the people who raised you? Having to walk away from everything you grew up with, knowing you've disappointed the ones who love you?" He wasn't angry, not really, and throwing his old demons at Dorian might have been a low blow. But the words got Dorian to turn his head and focus on Bull's face, and he couldn't bring himself to feel bad about a breach in etiquette now. "I might know a bit. Takes a tough man to do it, too, so good on you, you big old fop."

 

Dorian mulled the information over briefly, processing and deciding how to respond. Finally, he sighed, "Yay, good on me." A small smile even touched his lips.

 

Bull felt the tension in his shoulders release, slowly, as Dorian grinned. "I finally know what your problem is, Dorian."

 

"I have just the one?" he responded, and his voice was blessedly lighter.

 

"You see a man who's burned out, who's left his people and an entire life behind, but..."

 

"You aren't suggesting that we're similar?" Dorian chuckled.

 

"How's that mirror treating you? Pretty picture, huh?"

 

"I may vomit," Dorian said, stifling another peal of laughter. 

 

Spurred on by it, Bull struck an exaggerated pose, curling his arm to flex his bicep. "Wait, wait, I'll flex a little for you. Make it easier."

 

Dorian's laughter immediately brightened the caravan's mood. The rest of the trip was more comfortable, though Dorian kept up to the front and refused to sleep on the final night. Upon arrival to Skyhold, Lavellan warmly took Bull's hand and thanked him for his help. Cassandra said little, but the way she looked at Bull as she departed was soft. Bull did his very best to ignore the gentle burn that flared  in his belly when Dorian bid him goodnight.

 

~~~~

 

The Bull had been back in Skyhold a few days before he saw Dorian again. He trained with the Chargers during the day and drank with them at night, flushing the anger and frustration of the past weeks out of his system. He wanted to give the mage his space, let him choose whether or not to talk about the trip. His mind was changed, however, by a conversation of a pair of weedy-looking Fereldan recruits in the Herald's Rest, over twin tankards of brown swill. Bull regularly listened in on them, relied on them for Skyhold's gossip and general public opinion, though they never knew it.

 

"So," said the woman, "word is that the Inquisitor's little magister hasn't shown his face 'round here recently."

 

"'S true," said the man. "Nellie makes runs for the Spymaster, and she said he hasn't been in the library at all when she's been."

 

The woman shrugged. "Good. Maybe the blighter's finally realized that nobody wants him here."

 

"Maybe even got himself killed!" The man enthused, and the woman laughed and raised her tankard in toast. "To one less 'Vint!"

 

The way Bull slammed his own drink on the table and stood, knocking his chair against the wall and to the floor with an disruptive clatter, was very unsubtle. The couple turned to look at him, but an aggressive glance had them snapping their heads away fast enough to give themselves whiplash. To his left, Krem laughed, and the sound seemed distant.

 

Bull reoriented the chair, and said, "I'm gonna step out for a bit."

 

"You go ahead and do that, chief," Krem called, a mile away.

 

First, the Bull went to the library to check on Dorian's study. He entered by way of the main hall, and it seemed he ran into every person possible on the way there. Cassandra waved at him from her training dummies, Sera blew a raspberry at him from the battlements, and Varric greeted him at the hall's entrance. 

 

When he made it to the base of the spiraling tower, Solas decided to join the club and waved at Bull from behind a large oaken desk. He squinted through a pair of antiquated specs, and commented, "I can't remember the last time I saw you here, Iron Bull."

 

"That's 'cause I never come here," Bull replied shortly, and strode past Solas to the stairs.

 

Ascending them was tricky. He had to angle in, left shoulder tilted forward and head turned to the right, and the spiral meant that there was no easy way to force his bulk through. Eventually, he reached the top, with a few Qunlat profanities thrown in for good measure.

 

Whoever Nellie had been, she hadn't been lying. Dorian's reading nook was indeed empty. The table on the outside corner had two small, neat stacks of books on it, along with several stout candlesticks and a neat stack of paper. Everything had a fine layer of dust, completely undisturbed. The padded chair backed against the window had two small, neat cushions arranged atop it, and they, too, appeared not to have been touched in days. Bull wagered that Dorian hadn't been here since before the trip to Redcliffe.

 

In the time it took Bull to access the study, he'd also come up with a plan of action. He strode close to one of the bookshelves, leaning in to read the titles in the late-afternoon sun. He looked until a book caught his eye; it looked freshly-bound, jammed between two older tomes haphazardly. He plucked it out and left with it.

 

When he finally forced his bulk back down the stairwell, Solas spoke without looking up from his work. "You know, I spend quite a bit of time here," he said. 

 

Bull intended to ignore the elf, making for the main hall and huffing, "I'm sure you do."

 

Solas continued, "I've noticed a lack of falling books. When he doesn't like them, he just-" He mimed throwing something over his shoulder. "Discards them. Instead of scratching the paint off the wall with your horns, you could have asked me if I'd noticed his absence."

 

A glance back proved that Bull had indeed left a few nicks in the plaster of the stairwell's confining walls. A chill crept up his spine; damn mages and their divination. Solas looked up to see Bull's surprised expression and chuckled softly. "I didn't use a magic trick, Iron Bull. I've just heard about your concern for him. Touching, really."

 

Bull huffed through his nose. "Thanks," he growled, and finally left.

 

The main hall had a lead-out to the garden, and the garden had a staircase that lead to the personal quarters. Bull took them both, blessedly, without further interruption. This stairwell let out on the opposite side of the one near the kitchens, meaning Dorian's room would be to the right. He counted doors to make sure he had the right one, then approached it, reviewing his plan before knocking.

 

"Its open," said a voice from within.

 

The state of the room was abysmal, but Bull really couldn't bring himself to be surprised. The place had been cluttered on his first visit, but there'd been a method to the madness. There was absolutely no method to the madness Bull faced now. Clothing was piled on the floor, likely lying exactly where Dorian had shed it. Papers of every kind were sprinkled atop the obscured floor like fresh snow, as if Dorian had taken stacks of them and thrown them wildly about. The curtains had been partially pulled shut, and the majority of the light in the room came from two veilfire torches mounted on the walls. Their unnatural glow cast Dorian in a sickly green light, in which he sat on his mattress, propped up by his many cushions. He held one book in each hand, open to different pages, and several more laid strewn across the bed, open towards him. A half-full bottle of Antivan brandy was propped against Dorian's thigh, and a few empty ones were seated in the overflowing wastebasket. When Dorian looked up to see Bull enter, his eyes were darkened with lack of sleep. Even his state-of-dress was off; he wore an oversized tunic that gaped at the neck, and simple deerskin leggings.

 

"Hello, Bull," he said with a sigh.

 

"Dorian," Bull replied, "what the hell is this?"

 

Dorian simply said, "Reading. I know you aren't as sharp as some, but surely you've heard of it."

 

"Cute. I meant, what are you doing holed up in here?"

 

Dorian sighed, closing the book he'd been focusing on and placing it atop the other to hold his spot. "I'm doing research, Bull, like I was brought onto the Inquisition to do. I simply... haven't had the energy to listen to the people up in the library."

 

Bull fully entered the room, closing the door behind himself before he continued. "Since when do you listen to asshole nobles?"

 

Dorian looked half-amused. "One can only brush off so many slights and insults before they grow weary of it all."

 

"What have you eaten in the past three days?" Bull asked. He tried and failed not to sound like a concerned nanny.

 

"Oh, some cheese and bread. There's this little kitchen-maid who keeps bringing up plates, it's actually rather sweet. And..." Dorian picked up his bottle of brandy by the neck, shaking it for emphasis before taking a drink. "Not in extreme excess, mind you. The hangover I had last time was more than enough to shake me of that behavior. But I assume you came here for a reason, besides judging my food-to-alcohol consumption ratio."

 

Bull had forgotten about the book, clutched in his too-big hands. "I noticed you weren't around," Bull said smoothly, "figured you might've wanted something to read, to take your mind off things. But it looks like I'm late to that party."

 

Dorian laughed and held out a hand, wiggling his fingers to urge Bull to give it to him. Bull had to pick his way across the floor so as not to step on any of Dorian's things, and he deposited the book in Dorian's grasping hand. Dorian snatched it up to his face, pulling it closer, then farther, as if he wasn't exactly sure what he was looking at. Finally, he brought it to his lap and squinted up at Bull. "Are you joking? Is this some odd attempt to woo me?"

 

Bull blinked slowly, thoroughly confused. "I mean, no more than usual. What're you talking about?"

 

"This is  Swords and Shields.  Surely, you gave me this smutty piece of rubbish in some backwards attempt at seduction. Or did Varric get you to give it to me?"

 

Bull laughed loudly, causing Dorian to start. "Okay, okay," he said, putting up his hands in surrender. "I grabbed a random book from the library to have an excuse to come and check on you. You win."

 

Dorian began to laugh, as well. He temporarily got caught up in it, rocking forward and clutching at the book as he shook and laughed. When he caught his breath, he looked up and gave Bull a fond smile. "You lummox, you really do have a heart somewhere in there."

 

"Of course I do. And since I'm feeling so loving and supportive, I have to point out that you look like absolute shit. Ever heard of sleep?"

 

Dorian continued to smile, even as he traced his puffy lower lids with his fingertips. "I have. Sleep and I were once acquainted, but it seems that sleep has found someone new and left me alone to suffer."

 

Bull smirked. Even like this, Dorian had to have some quip prepared. It was like a defense mechanism; approach a difficult topic, make a joke and deflect. Bull was guilty of it as well, and he wondered if that has why he and Dorian got along like they did. Presently, Bull struggled over just how much joke would be appropriate for the situation. "Oh, you know what they say. Sleep's a finicky sonuvabitch. One near-death experience and it just packs its bags and fucks off. Thankfully, yours truly knows a few remedies to help with that."

 

"Oh?" Dorian placed the book in his lap, crossing his arms over his chest. "And what if I don't want your help?"

 

"Then," Bull conceded, " I  fuck off and leave you alone. I didn't come here to force you into anything, Dorian. You can always tell me to stop, whenever you want, and I will." To aid his point, he took an exaggerated step backwards.

 

Bull's response seemed not to've been what Dorian was expecting. His posture relaxed, losing its defensive edge as he eased himself back on his cushions. He fingered the novel's cover, eyes dropping to it in consideration. After a moment, he looked up. "Tell me what this remedy entails."

 

"Okay," Bull said. "I can go and get you some real food, something that'll fill you up and stick to your ribs. Sleeping is always easier when you're full." Dorian nodded slowly, and Bull went on. "I can go pick some herbs from the garden to add to tea. Lavellan showed me a few that help with sleep, when I was having trouble with it." Again he nodded. "And, well. There's sex, but I typically save that for when my partner is sober."

 

Dorian's lips quirked at the last bit. "I'm sober, I assure you. But let's start with dinner, and see where that takes us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand here's chapter 2!
> 
> I just wanted to thank everyone for all of this positive feedback. This is the first multi-chapter fic I've ever written, and it means so much to me that people go out of their way to tell me they've enjoyed it!
> 
> The 3rd chapter probably won't be up as fast, because I'm not all that far into it, but I'm working as much as I can. Also, if the rating does go up, it'll be next chapter, so be warned and all that.
> 
> Thank you, and enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

Dorian laced up a pair of tall black boots over his leggings and applied kohl to his already-dark eyes before he agreed to leave his room. He even fussed at his mustache with a comb, but he quickly gave up on that, allowing it to hang limply at the ends.

 

"The little prince has to look presentable," Bull cooed, and laughed uproariously as Dorian flung his comb in Bull's direction.

 

They walked in amiable silence to the tavern, and the later hour blessed them with a swift and uninterrupted arrival. The tavern itself had its fair share of patrons present, the large room awash will yellow light and buzzing with soft conversation. This time, all of the Chargers were present, and they cheered when Bull re-entered. Dorian's face soured considerably, but Bull simply placed one large hand on the flat of Dorian's back and guided him towards his corner of the tavern.

 

"'Just stepping out', eh?" Krem teased in lieu of a greeting.

 

"Yeah," Bull said back, "and I brought in some fresh meat."

 

"Not so fresh," Krem replied. "I remember you gettin' pretty tossed last I saw you, 'Vint."

 

Dorian scoffed. "A pleasure to see you, as well."

 

Bull grinned, patting Dorian's back in an attempt to soothe him. "Dorian, you know Kreme Puff." Krem groaned. Bull pointed with his opposite hand as he continued, "And then then there's Dalish, Rocky, Skinner, Grim, and Stitches."

 

Each member raised a hand in greeting, and fell back into conversation after everyone had been introduced. Dorian reluctantly sat, in the same stool he had before, as Bull wandered to the bar to order him some food. He asked for whatever the heartiest thing they made was, and leaned on the counter to wait. Across the room, Dorian had begun to banter with Dalish, and Bull contentedly watched as the mages both gesticulated. Something like pride warmed him through, and he was easily swept up in the emotion. The bartender had to prod Bull to get his attention and hand him the dish he'd ordered.

 

Apparently, the heartiest thing the Herald's Rest made was nug stew. It smelled greasy and rich, even over the less-than-pleasant ambient aroma of the tavern, and it appeared almost comically viscous. Arranged at the bowl's edge was a large roll. Briefly, Bull wondered if eating something so heavy after days of bread and cheese would make Dorian sick, but the gain of comfort outweighed the risk of upset stomach. Thus, Bull brought the stew back to Dorian and placed it in his flailing hands.

 

"But you carry a staff!" Dorian was insisting, even as he accepted the bowl.

 

Dalish shot back, "It's a bow!", and mimicked the draw-back-and-release of the weapon she claimed to carry.

 

"A bow with a big crystal on the end," Krem interjected.

 

"It helps with aiming," Dalish said, "old clan secret. You wouldn't understand."

 

Dorian replied, "Wouldn't I?" Dalish stuck out her tongue, and Dorian wrinkled his nose.

 

"C'mon now," Bull pleaded. He'd heard variations of this same argument a hundred times, and he would probably hear it a hundred more. "We can argue what kind of weapon Dalish uses later. Dorian here's gotta eat."

 

Dorian had taken up the spoon in his bowl skeptically. He sniffed at it as if he suspected it of being poisoned, but eventually took a mouthful and chewed.

 

The soup disappeared rather quickly, as Dorian quickly stopped feigning disdain when hunger took over. The Chargers, sans Grim, conversed easily about nothing in particular, Dorian interceding between swallows. When both the stew and the bread were gone, Bull clapped his back and took the bowl from him.

 

"I see the chief's gone all momma-bear on you," Skinner said with a toothy grin.

 

Krem chuckled and said, "Congrats, welcome to the club. Once you've got him on your side, people won't even be able to sneeze in your direction without your say-so. He'll make sure of it."

 

Bull laughed. "What can I say? Somebody's gotta take care of you shits."

 

"Ain't that the truth," Krem said into his bottle of wine. Then, to Dorian, he said, "Did the chief tell you how he lost his eye?"

 

Dorian, who'd been bristling with embarrassment, glanced between Krem and Bull before he responded. "No, I don't believe he has."

 

"Well," Krem said, leaning forward in his chair. Bull kicked out his legs, settling comfortably to hear the tale again, and he was pleased to see Dorian wearing an expression of genuine curiosity. 

 

"I was on the run, laying low in some tavern in the ass-end of Tevinter, "Krem began. "I had some bounty hunters after me. Parents sent them, I suppose. Anyway, they followed me to that tavern. Now, the chief just happened to be in this place, too. All he sees are of a couple of asshole 'Vints going after a kid. One of 'em had this big flail, and he was gonna pulp me right there on the tavern floor with it... But Bull decided he was gonna get between it and me before the 'Vint had a chance."

 

The bloodrush of a good tall tale faded out of Krem's voice, and was replaced by introspection. "It took his eye right out. Bastard didn't even know me. All he saw was somebody little who needed help, so he helped 'em."

 

Dorian's eyes went soft. He'd turned from Krem to look at Bull, who was also smiling fondly at the memory.

 

"You forgot the part where I slaughtered the mercs," Bull said.

 

Krem replied, "Oh, Maker forbid. And then he mopped the floor with 'em. Happy?"

 

"Very," said Bull. Dorian sat, slightly bewildered by the new side of Bull he'd been introduced to. Sensing discomfort in the conversation's lull, Bull turned and said, "So, Dorian, how's the food settling?"

 

Dorian had been staring at Bull's eyepatch, but his eyes quickly snapped to Bull's remaining one when Bull addressed him. "Rather well, all things considered," he said. "I think I'm just about ready to retire."

 

"What'd I tell you?" Bull crowed. "A full stomach'll do wonders for you."

 

"Quite," Dorian said. With a mischievous grin and a glint in his eye, he rose from his seat, bidding the Chargers a good evening. Rather than heading for the door, however, he swiftly exited via the staircase in the middle of the room, ascending out of sight with his head held haughtily high.

 

Krem whistled, low and long.

 

"Guess that means we're skipping tea," Bull said under his breath.

 

~~~~

 

When Bull entered his own bedroom, he found Dorian had perched on the edge of the bed. He'd removed his boots, and now sat with one leg pulled up, knee tucked beneath his chin.

 

"Was it the story about me  destroying  those 'Vints that did it for you?" Bull teased.

 

Dorian practically groaned. "You're insufferable," he said, and rose from his seat to approach the Bull. Dorian got right to the point, tip-toeing to get enough height and force to mash his lips against Bull's.

 

The kiss was forceful on Dorian's part. For the moment, Bull let Dorian lead it, testing the waters. Dorian was less testing and more diving in headfirst, licking Bull's lower lip to get him to open his mouth.

 

"Nice enthusiasm," Bull rumbled, hands coming to rest on Dorian's backside. "I like it. Stoke those fires, big guy."

 

"Kaffas," Dorian said. His hands balled into fists on Bull's bare chest. "I'll show you fires if you don't get on with it."

 

"Mmm. But listen, Dorian. I might get a bit rough here."

 

Dorian snorted. "I'm no dainty waif."

 

"I know," Bull said. "You need a watchword, though. If you want me to stop, you say it, and I stop. No questions asked."

 

"Can't I just say stop?"

 

"No," Bull insisted. He could feel Dorian squirm impatiently against him. "I'm picking one for you. It'll be  katoh,  got it?"

 

"Katoh," Dorian repeated.

 

"Good," Bull said, and rewarded the mage by skimming one hand over his growing erection.

 

Dorian groaned, tried to find more friction, but Bull pulled his hand away. He placed it on the side of Dorian's face, with the other still gripping his ass, and resumed their previous kiss, deepening it with a  force that had Dorian melting.

 

~~~~

 

It felt like hours later that Bull reclined on the mattress, arms behind his head, with a bare-naked Dorian draped across his chest. He lay limply, breathing deep and relaxed, his heart rate slowing in time with the Bull's. His eyes weren't closed; rather, they remained half-lidded, chin in his hands as he looked up at his partner. Their skin stuck together with a thin sheen of sweat, despite the cleanup effort that Bull had so valiantly put forth. Dorian seemed to luxuriate in it, practically glowing as Bull reached forward to stroke his cheek.

 

The sound of breathing seemed to grow heavy, laden with unspoken words. "We don't have to talk about it," Bull said softly. "Not if you don't want to."

 

"I do, though," Dorian replied. "It's just... kaffas, Bull, I don't know what I'm doing."

 

Bull laughed, and took joy in the way Dorian's body bounced along with it. "Neither do I, really," Bull confessed. "I've never done it with a mage before."

 

"Not that," Dorian said, driving a hand down into Bull's chest in a sad attempt at a slap. "I meant..." A generalized wave followed, all-encompassing in a way reminiscent of the gesture Bull often used. "Overall. Us, a relationship. I'm no good at it."

 

"Take it easy," Bull replied. "It doesn't have to  mean  anything. If you like it like this, just blowing off a little steam, it stays like this."

 

Dorian make a noncommittal noise, shrugging into the Bull. "It was nice," he said. " Is  nice." His free hand fell, tracing a lazy pattern into Bull's pectoral muscle.

 

"Not too nice, if you can still talk," Bull teased. He grinned as Dorian dug his nail into the skin he'd been tracing.

 

"Stop it, you animal. I'm ready to pass out... That is, if you don't mind me staying."

 

Apprehension had crept into Dorian's voice. Again, Bull's chest squeezed the way it had in Redcliffe. Bull envisioned a younger Dorian, sneaking into some man's private quarters for a quick release, then sneaking away again, convinced that he would never have a meaningful relationship in his life. He had no desire to send the man away, and he suddenly realized how his prior words must have sounded to Dorian's ears.

 

"No, no," Bull said gently, "stay." He leaned to the side, groping for the blanket that had been thrown to the floor. When he found it, he threw it up and over Dorian, settling his hands over it on Dorian's back. Dorian laid his cheek on Bull's chest, a sigh of contentment on his lips.

 

Before long, Dorian was snoring, the same gentle sound he'd made the last time Bull had seen him asleep. With an odd stirring sensation in his heart, below the loose fist of Dorian's hand, Bull concluded that he was in this for the long run now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter this time, because it made more sense to break it this way up against the next chapter. I HAVE NEVER WRITTEN SEX BEFORE LMAO IS IT OBVIOUS. Please go easy on me, oh my god.
> 
> Next chapter should be up in a few days. Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

"So, Dorian, about the other night."

 

The envoy trudging through the Hissing Wastes consisted of the Iron Bull, Dorian, Sera and Lavellan. This time, the party had decided to stay close together, as frequent gusts of wind blew up sand and lowered visibility. Time and again, Bull and Dorian attempted innocent conversation, but every time the pair so much as looked at each other, Sera and Lavellan's ears literally perked up. Lavellan had the couth to pretend not to listen, but Sera snickered loudly and made exaggerated glances backwards, muttering something about trees and custard. 

 

Bull cursed that little kitchen maid, her rumors, and anyone who'd partaken in them. If words about Dorian and himself were to circulate Skyhold, he at least wanted to be the instigator.

 

"Discretion isn't your thing, I take it?" Dorian sighed.

 

Bull jerked his chin forward to point out the pair of elves ahead, and winked exaggeratedly. "Three times!" he enthused. "Also, did you want your silky underthings back, or did you leave them like a token?  Or,  did you 'forget' them so you'd have a chance to come back? You sly dog!"

 

Dorian looked absolutely scandalized for a beat, until he realized what the Bull was doing. As it dawned on him, the expression morphed into something bemused and long-suffering.

 

Sera's eyes practically bugged out of her head, and she didn't bother fixing the expression even as Dorian caught her.

 

Bull beamed with pride when Dorian joined in on the joke. "If you choose to leave your door unlocked like a savage, I may or may not come."

 

"Speak for yourself," Bull said, and Sera outright stumbled. Even Lavellan couldn't stop an embarrassed chuckle from bubbling forth.

 

All things considered, Bull was proud of Dorian. His initial judgement of the man hadn't been  _ entirely  _ wrong; this Southern crowd could get awfully crude, and Dorian's upbringing had been rather particular. But it had also been much more than that; distrust, betrayal, hardship, loss, and grief had created the unholy storm that was Dorian Pavus, and Bull knew how much it took, physically and emotionally, to temper that reaction, to mold it into something one could function with. To put as much trust as he did in Bull, Dorian was going against a not just a lifetime, but generations of learned behavior. The romantic side that Bull didn't like to admit he had was touched by it all.

 

And just as much as Bull didn't like to admit the existence of his touchy-feely side, he also desperately wished that Dorian wasn't so damn good at tangling it up with his horny-bastard side.

 

As they always did, Bull and Dorian shared a tent when it came time for the day to close. This particular time, however, the tent flap had barely been tied closed and the lantern extinguished before Bull was all over Dorian, lips seeking the warm, caramel skin of Dorian's exposed shoulder.

 

Dorian rocked forward on his feet, tilting his head to allow Bull better access to his neck. "The others," he warned.

 

"Sera and the Boss?" Bull mumbled into Dorian's skin. The angle was odd because of Bulls height, but the shudder it earned him was more than worth a moment of stiffness. "I bet they won't come anywhere near this tent after what we said earlier. Besides..." He kissed a trail up to Dorian's ear, nipped at the lobe. "The wind's loud enough to cover us, if we keep it down. You remember the watchword?"

 

Dorian cleared his throat and nodded, hands scrabbling over Bull's arms as if he didn't know where to place them. 

 

"Good," Bull rumbled. "I want to try to make good on that 'three times' story."

 

Bull began at the buckles on Dorian's chest, and quickly Dorian joined in. The heavy leather chestpiece hit the sand with a satisfyingly heavy noise, quickly followed by the gauntlets. Soon he and Bull were down to the same state-of-dress, naked from the waist up.

 

Bull guided Dorian to the ground, lips to his ear as he instructed him onto the bedroll. A knee was placed on either side of Dorian's legs so that Bull straddled them, physically overpowering the mage simply by sitting. He wiggled his hips, partly to accentuate his weight and party to tease.

 

"I can't believe this," Dorian said in an exaggerated whisper.

 

"You love it," Bull responded, and leaned forward to grind against Dorian's hips and stomach, using enough force to bruise. The mage nearly whimpered. This, of course, spurred Bull on. He gathered both of Dorian's wrists in one hand, drawing them up over Dorian's head. With the other hand, he grabbed a fistful of Dorian's hair. Dorian resisted, arching his back and pulling his arms, and with each exertion Bull simply hummed into Dorian's mouth.

 

Slowly, Bull disentangled his hand from Dorian's hair and dragged it heavily down his neck, chest, and stomach, leaving three raised lines where the nails of his fingers and thumb raked at the flesh. Dorian broke the kiss, clenched his teeth and drew a ragged, hissing breath.

 

Bull continued south, fingered the hem of Dorian's pants before palming him. Dorian bucked into his hand, groaning, and Bull had to ignore the way the sound made his own dick ache.

 

"Hush," Bull growled, and thrust his hand into Dorian's smalls.

 

This was pretty much the extent of where they'd gotten the first time, only with different positioning. For all his enthusiasm, Dorian had finished quickly their first night, especially in comparison to the Bull's typical stamina. Now, Bull's touch was lighter, drawing the act out.

 

"Bull," Dorian hissed, arms yanking fruitlessly. Bull again brought his lips to the mage's throat. He grazed Dorian's pulse point with his teeth, head swimming with the taste of the mage's sweat and the thrum of his heart.

 

Dorian squirmed, stomach trembling, and said Bull's name again. He held his breath for a moment, gave one final tug, and raggedly whispered, " Katoh ."

 

Dorian might as well have poured a bucket of cold water over the Bull's head. Bull was off of him all at once, sitting up quick enough to make himself dizzy. He trailed his hands away, and the tightness of arousal in his gut screwed up into worry. 

 

"Are you okay?" Bull asked. "Did I do something wrong?"

 

Dorian made a guttural noise, somewhere between laughter and groaning. "I... I didn't think you'd really stop."

 

"Didn't think I'd stop," Bull echoed softly. Something like guilt washed over him, and he didn't bother to mask the knit of his brows, the widening of his eyes, the pressing together of his lips.

 

Dorian brought himself onto one elbow, to as if he was going to look at Bull, but he cast his eyes over to the darkened corner of the tent. "It..." He began, voice wavering just a bit. His free hand rose to the fading marks on his pectoral muscle as he spoke. "It wouldn't have been the first time someone had their way with me after I asked them to stop. You'll forgive me for the uncertainty." Bull could tell that Dorian was trying for the typical waspish inflection. He didn't quite reach it, but the words hurt more than the most sincere insult Dorian could've given him.

 

Bull opened his mouth, then shut it again, for once entirely unsure of what to say.

 

"Years and years ago," Dorian said. "It was the scratching that reminded me. He clawed up my shoulders and chest, even drew blood."

 

"I'm... sorry," the Bull finally managed. He reached forward, hand hovering over Dorian's where they traced the marks Bull had left. "I'm so sorry."

 

"No, no. I should have said something sooner," Dorian said. When he realized the Bull's hand held above his own, he said, "You can touch me, its not as if you've broken me."

 

Bull laid his hand over Dorian's. "I'm sorry anyway," he asserted. "I won't be that asshole. Never. You're more important than that."

 

They sat quietly like that for a time, Bull knelt before Dorian, hands piled upon his chest, eyes cast to their fingers. The moment seemed to stretch, torture for Bull, but he waited to see what Dorian would do. Finally, the mage sighed and pulled his hands away. He screwed up his face as if contemplating whether to speak. "Thank you, Iron Bull," he said. Stopped. Cleared his throat. With a stab at casualty, he continued, "I don't suppose you'll lay with me. Just to sleep."

 

"If that's what you want," Bull assured, "of course." He leaned to the side and reached for his bedroll, to pull it up aside Dorian's for a wider sleeping space. Dorian let Bull do the rearranging and sand-brushing. Once the rolls had successfully been laid out, Bull went about removing his wide belt, brace, and boots, and finished by stretching and popping his back. Dorian indicated how he wanted Bull to lay, on the left side, and Bull fell obediently to the floor. Dorian backed against him, tense at first, but Bull gave him time to get comfortable, deliberate not to pin him or make him feel stuck. Tentatively, Dorian relaxed his head onto Bull's bicep.

 

"Good night," Bull hummed. Dorian hummed in response. The pair's breathing slowly leveled out, and it didn't take long for Dorian to drift. Bull let fatigue pull at his eyelids, but remained awake. The knot in his stomach only eased once he felt Dorian's muscles finally give way, body going limp with sleep. In the darkened tent, with the ambient shuffling of the wind, Bull felt like a protector, and as anyone who knew Bull could attest, this was the job, out of all the ones he performed, that he took the most seriously.

 

~~~~

 

After days of trekking, the desert began to give way. Foliage became more apparent, the sand softened beneath their feet, and cliffs began to divide the landscape into stark valleys. It was in one such valley that the oasis finally made itself known. A deep, clear pool of water lay at its center, fed by a lazily flowing waterfall from an overhead crag. Dense foliage framed either side, deep greens occasionally interrupted by the subtle pink of a desert flower. It was picturesque, stunning- and yet entirely unsettling. Set behind the oasis was a towering temple, seemingly carved into the rock face. Stairs, long blown dull by the insistent desert wind, led to its towering door, and the entire setting emanated a sense of dread, sickly sweet like a heavily-masked poison.

 

Sera had perked up considerably at the sight of water, and had dropped all of her gear in a mad dash for the pool. The otherworldly breeze that the place sighed, however, had her skidding to a stop just at the water's edge.

 

"I don't like this, Boss," Bull insisted as he approached.

 

"No shite," Sera agreed. "There's something weird about this place."

 

Lavellan had slowed her pace as she approached the oasis, but didn't stop moving. "Dorian," she called, and the mage shuffled from his spot beside Bull to catch up with her. "That door. Remind you of anything?"

 

"Yes," he replied forebodingly. Something at the back of Bull's mind laughed at Dorian's penchant for the dramatic, but the forefront of his thoughts were seized by the aura of the place. Dorian continued, "The mechanism set in the middle looks like Alexius' door, from our foray into the future. Older, perhaps, but very similar."

 

The mechanism in question was set in the towering door as if carved in, round, and close enough to the ground for most to reach. Several slots encircled an ornately-carved pattern, and the entire setup screamed "trap", something directly out of one of Varric's adventurous serials.

 

"Magical shit," Bull grunted. "Fan-fuckin'-tastic."

 

Dorian wrinkled his nose, replying, "It would seem so."

 

"Alexius' door needed lyrium shards to unlock," Lavellan said. "I obviously don't have any of that now."

 

"I don't believe you'll need that," Dorian said. "You've dragged us all over creation to find those Maker-forsaken blue shards- you know the ones- and I believe we've finally discovered their purpose."

 

"You're not gonna go in there!" Sera chimed in. "For all we know, it's packed fulla demons! We open the door and PHWOAR!" She raised her arms and set her fingers like talons to aid her point.

 

Lavellan waved Sera off, veering to the left to ascend the closer of the staircases. "I can fight off a few demons," she said nonchalantly. "If Dorian's right, we can finally figure out what the shards are for. I've been dying to figure this out."

 

Sera grumbled as she doubled back to retrieve her gear. Bull waited up for her, just as reluctant as she in the face of unfamiliar magic. As she passed him, she gesticulated jerkily forward, as if insisting,  get a load of this shit.  Bull nodded, rolled his shoulders, and followed Lavellan to the door.

 

The Inquisitor dropped her pack, large in relation to her slight frame, and rummaged through one of the outermost pockets before pulling out a large swathe of cloth. She peeled back the outer layer, and the blueish glow of the shards peeked forth. She used her pointer finger and thumb like pincers, fishing one of the many shards from their container and slotting it into one of the door's openings. It went all the way in, fitting almost perfectly. Lavellan repeated the process for each one, and each slotted with a soft chunk. As soon as each space was full, the door groaned, dust shaking from the crack between the panels. The locking mechanism slid into the door, setting off a hollow-sounding cacophony of ringing metal, and suddenly the doors jerked slightly inward.

 

As soon as the door unlocked, the uneasy aura seemed to crescendo, singing almost audibly, before it snapped. Afterward, the only remaining sensations were the emanating heat of the sand and the gentle, now innocuous, breeze wheezing forth from the temple.

 

"It's gone," Bull said unnecessarily.

 

"Some kind of enchantment, I presume," Dorian said. "Maybe a test to keep people away."

 

"That'd explain why the miners never found this place," Lavellan said.

 

Sera moaned and swung her arms, ending the arch above her head to grab her bow and an arrow from her quiver. "Let's get this over with," she said.

 

The rest of the party followed her lead in drawing their own weapons. Bull shouldered past his companions, as he insisted on being the first inside in case of danger. He hefted the doors in- they glided a bit too easily for their size, and he cursed. However, nothing jumped out at them, and so it was with caution that the party soldiered on.

 

Every ten feet or so, a blackened sconce hung from the carved-stone walls. Dorian waved veilfire to life in each one to illuminate the path, but the effect only made Bull feel sick. "Magical shit," he swore again, "so creepy all the goddam time."

 

"Bull, it's simply veilfire," Dorian said, somewhere between chiding and reassuring. "I've explained it to you before."

 

"I know," Bull said. "Memory of fire, whatever. It just pisses me off that it has to be green. Why not yellow, like normal fire? Or a nice calming blue. Hell, I'd even settle for purple, like that necromancy shit you do."

 

Dorian gave a put-upon sigh, but said nothing more.

 

Deeper into the cavern, they were met by three more doors. The cool, dank air of the cavern took on the twangy scent of ozone. One door was encrusted with frost, one radiated heat, and the third stood relatively normally.

 

Lavellan counted their remaining shards out loud. "We only have enough to unlock one door."

 

"I say we turn around," Sera added unhelpfully. Bull grunted his agreement.

 

"I volunteer the icy one," Dorian said, and conjured a ball of real, red-and-orange flame in his free left hand.

 

Lavellan did so, and the door shuddered open similarly to the first. A gust of icy wind came forth, and Bull could practically feel the sweat on his forehead freeze. Again, he muscled his way to the front to open the door, and this time, he was thankful he did.

 

He'd barely taken ten steps in before an undead clasped its frozen, bony fingers to the hilt of his outheld axe. Bull gave a cry, yanked up with enough force to crack the embrittled arm off the creature, and brought his axe down upon its head with the sound of shattering glass. "Demons!" he shouted, and Sera cussed loudly.

 

Several more brittle, cold corpses made for the others, and a despair demon manifested in the far corner of the dim room. The heat of Dorian's flame licked past him as a well-timed bolt incinerated two warriors and an archer. A volley of arrows from the back line indicated Sera's contribution, and Lavellan had tucked herself into Bull's left flank, flitting out with her daggers between his sweeping strikes to fell any opportunistic foes. The fighting ended as a particularly explosive spell flung the last of the undead into the walls, where they then laid still.

 

At the center of the room, a large marble casket laid slightly ajar. Lining its base, as well as the surrounding walls, were several jars and chests of anonymous make.

 

"This is schmuck bait," Bull said. "Boss, I wouldn't start grave robbing now."

 

Bull might as well have been talking to one of the desecrated corpses for all the good it did. Lavellan was an infamous kleptomaniac, and she'd already begun rummaging in some of the containers. Sera began to peer into jars, and even Dorian probed through remains with the end of his staff. Bull sighed wearily, and joined the hunt for treasure. He uncovered a few gem-encrusted pieces of jewelry (that Sera snatched and tucked away with a muttered, "gotta be worth something"), weapons too rusted and tarnished for use, and a few small paintings likely depicted whoever'd been buried there. Once Sera had filled the extra space in her pack with valuables, she spun on her heel, declaring that it was time to leave. Dorian lifted an ancient-looking tome from the base of the casket and tucked it discreetly into his robes, against his heart, and he patted it as he turned to go. Bull followed him to the exit.

 

"Bull," Lavellan called. He turned just in time to catch the metallic projectile she's tossed his way. Upon inspection, he found it to be a tightly-sealed tin, about as wide and thick as his palm. He weighed it in his hand before twisting the lid off and inspecting its contents. Inside was a glistening black paste.

 

"Is this what I think it is?" Bull asked, and tentatively sniffed it.

 

"It's Vitaar," she said. "Since we're all taking souvenirs."

 

In lieu of thanks, Bull said, "You're the best, Boss."

 

"Does this mean you'll finally take a bath?" Dorian said from a distance. The party continued out of the temple, with Sera practically jogging ahead in her haste to leave. Dorian fell back with Bull, and continued, "I assume you won't put that on over your dirty skin."

 

"Why?" Bull teased. "You want to _watch_ , don't you?"

 

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Dorian said, turning up his nose with a haughty grin. With that, he strode ahead to the party, and Bull watched his hips sway as he went.

  
"You're doing that on purpose," Bull whined, and he bustled back towards the oasis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me just *hikes up my pants, wades into the nearest dumpster* ah yes much better
> 
> I apologize for that wait, I'm not really sure where a month went. I'm finishing up my school year right now, and I think the worst is over! Hopefully this huge chapter will make up for that wait, so I hope you enjoy it!


	5. Chapter 5

Of all the places in Skyhold, Bull wagered that there were exactly three that were indispensable to the Inquisition: the War Room, the Herald's Rest, and the bathhouses. Sure, books were important, and training was an essential part of a warrior's success, but as Bull drew cold, fresh water from the fancy dwarven spigot inlaid into the tile wall, he couldn't bring himself to care about any of it. The room had ten tubs, five at each wall, and several more standing basins dabbled about. By some miracle, the place was empty when he arrived.

 

Perhaps "miracle" was the wrong word. He'd been crowing about taking a bath since Skyhold had been nothing more than an amorphous shape against the horizon during the caravan's return from the Wastes, and he knew the lengths that most of the Keep's residents went to in order to avoid crossing paths with him. If he said that he was going to make a visit to the gardens, and just one of Skyhold's many hands heard him say it, he guaranteed that it'd be sparse of visitors for a week. However, the bathhouse was in much higher demand than the garden, and so he doubted how much time he'd get to himself. It was for that reason that he finished drawing his bath, stripped, and climbed in with haste.

 

The water surged up Bull's skin and threatened to spill over the basin's brass lip as he eased himself in. It was colder than he would've guessed, his breath hitching in his chest as it shocked him. He could've found a fire rune to place under the tub to warm it, but he hadn't bothered. The tubs hadn't been designed for someone with Qunari proportions, and so Bull was forced to bring his knees up nearly to his chest in order to fold most of his body into the tub. He slid his bare backside as far as he could, struggled to make room as he always did, before cursing and giving up, pulling his bad leg from the water to drape it over the edge. With less displacement, the water found a more reasonable level to rest at, and Bull set to work in scrubbing himself clean.

 

He used a bar soap with barely any scent, lathered it in his hands before massaging the suds into his skin. He started at his scalp, between his horns, and worked his way down, neck, face, chest, stomach. He found a knot of tense muscle around his ribcage on the right side, and so he lingered there for a bit longer. When he reached where the water rested, he began again at his dangling foot and worked upwards. He'd lathered all the way to his knee, wheezing from his lack of flexibility and the odd angle, when the door to the bathhouse opened with an obvious groan.

 

It was the men's bathhouse, and a public one, after all, and so Bull had no shame for his prone position as the guest entered.

 

"Vishante kaffas," they swore, and it reverberated around the room. "I figured I'd find you here, but somehow I wasn't prepared."

 

Bull laughed, the water he sat in quivering around him. "Hi, Dorian," he said, and switched his legs so he could lather the left. He needed to move the right one with his hands, as the stiffness of his knee gave protest. The mage gave his usual fond sigh before sauntering in, shutting the door as he went and taking to leaning on the basin beside Bull's.

 

Dorian's eyes followed Bull's movement, openly raked over Bull's body as he stretched. Bull didn't need to glance at Dorian to know he was watching; he scrubbed quickly and immediately began rinsing himself, cupping large handfuls of water and splashing them over his soapy skin. He hummed a tune as he went, seemingly in round as the room echoed him, and Dorian was perfectly contented to watch and listen with a wry smile. Bull didn't bother to give warning before he gripped the sides of the tub and awkwardly stood in it, slicked some of the water off of himself with his hands, and climbed out.

 

Dorian's face, skin now noticeably browner for its exposure to the sun, somehow managed to get even darker, rosy around his cheeks and the shells of his ears. He shuffled, uncrossed and recrossed his arms, and coughed weakly into one ring-adorned fist, but never really drew his eyes from the Bull.

 

Completely aware of what he was doing, Bull bent to grab the towel from the satchel of supplies he'd left at the foot of the tub, and unabashedly set about drying off, as lewdly as he could. "See something you like?" he teased.

 

Dorian squawked like his namesake bird, jolted from his staring fit. "I...!" he tried, trailed away, and set his eyes to the high ceiling. "I'll beg you not to do that in public."

 

Bull simply laughed and finished drying his skin before he unfolded and stepped into his clean trousers. "What about in private?" he asked, and he couldn't resist winking with his good eye. 

 

It was low-hanging fruit, but Dorian fell for it easy, swallowing and licking his lower lip seemingly unconsciously. "Later," he said.

 

Bull rumbled deep in his throat, the way he knew Dorian liked, but rather than approach the mage, he scooped his new tin of vitaar from his pile of supplies. "I'm putting this on," he said needlessly, and Dorian simply bobbed his head in response.  He popped the tin open with a deft twist and set up at a standing basin that was topped by a mirror. The mirror was a bit too short, mostly reflecting his neck and chest, but it was just as well. He took the tin in his good hand, and dipped the two fingers of his left into the paste. It resisted, as it was likely very old, but Bull worked it with his fingers until it was more malleable. 

 

"You just...?" Dorian said, waving one hand vaguely. "Slop it on? Freehand? With your fingers?"

 

Bull chuckled. "You don't know how many times I've done this." He glanced at Dorian's reflected image, a tuft of shiny black hair peeking over his shoulder. The mage fell silent, and Bull knew he was secretly fascinated. He wondered what Dorian's knowledge of vitaar was, if his 'Vint books had ever really explained the stuff. Did he know it was only toxic to him until it dried? Did he know how it hardened when applied thickly, likening the skin to a dragon's hide with it's strange mix of chemicals? The questions flicked passively by, and Bull didn't bother to ask them, caught up as he was in the blackish-green sheen of his warpaint.

 

Finally, he scooped a bit of the stuff out of its container. With a moment's consideration, he smeared a stripe of it across his right shoulder, from just above his collarbone down around his pectoral muscle. The chemicals caused his skin to prickle as if it had fallen asleep. Supposedly, it would feel more like an intense, itching burn to a non-Qunari. He followed that line's curve a few times over, shortening the proceeding lines' lengths so that they followed the curve of his muscle. He whimsically dotted along the edge, swirled a bit around the outside of his shoulder. He was careful with the thickness of the application, though; a tin this size had probably been intended for use on the face, so he didn't have all that much to work with. The front completed, Bull stretched his arm as far around as he could and designed the smears on his back blindly. He was able to reach near the edge of his spine and around his shoulder blade, and years of practice assured that his designs would remain similar to what he envisioned. To finish up the tin, Bull dotted down his bicep in rows, the smear getting thinner and thinner until the vitaar was more a stain of pigment than temporary armor.

 

When he'd used all of the paint at his disposal, he set the empty tin on the basin alongside the lid and stepped back to admire his handiwork. The paint looked whimsical, tribal, the pattern so reminiscent of how he'd learned to apply it in Seheron that it made his chest ache a bit. If the stereotypical magister asshole saw  this  coming at them, a seven-and-change-foot wall of muscle with elaborate vitaar decorating and armoring his skin, they'd think two things: one, that said Qunari would be a savage and mindless beast, and two, that they'd need a change in robes real quick, because there'd be a good chance that they shit themselves in fear. The action of stepping back revealed more or Dorian's face in the mirror, however, and he appeared to think neither of those things.

 

"Intriguing," he said, shifting his weight and shuffling as he often did when he thought.

 

Bull spun around, both to crane his neck to see his back in the mirror, and to let Dorian see the front. "Badass, you mean," he replied, and arranged his arms into a flexed strongman pose. The vitaar pulled at his skin as he did so, already stiffening in the chilly air.

 

Dorian laughed with his mouth closed. "Whatever makes you happy," he said wistfully. "Though I did mean intriguing, in that your people go to such lengths to avoid wearing clothing that they made liquid armor."

 

Bull stopped admiring his reflection to look to Dorian, whose eyes were tracing the vitaar. He felt Bull's gaze and returned it briefly.

 

"What else do you know about vitaar," asked Bull, "besides the fact that it lets me run into battle shirtless?"

 

Dorian said, "You do that anyway," with the quickness of a reflex. He then answered, "Not a lot. I read that it's poisonous to non-Qunari."

 

"Only 'til it's dry," Bull amended. "After it's hardened, you're fine."

 

Dorian snorted. "What, no dirty joke?" 

 

The Bull threw his head back in a peal of laughter that echoed dissonantly through the room. "You spend too much time with me!" he cried. "Remember that one time you were drunk and I carried you out of the tavern? And you were all, ' _ What would my father say ?' _ " In his imitation, he raised his voice an octave, and brought a vitaar-stained finger to his upper lip to mimic a mustache. "Damn, that was different Dorian." 

 

Dorian smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “To be honest, I don’t remember it well,” he says. “But I don’t think it was a different Dorian. Perhaps a very drunk Dorian, but still me. I simply think I’m starting not to care what others think of my… romantic pursuits.”

  
“Damn,” Bull said again. He turned and stooped, retrieving his belongings and stuffing them back into their pack. He was fully aware of how Dorian observed him, feeling the mage’s eyes trailing over his skin. He grunted as he righted himself, slung the pack over his shoulder, and said, “In that case, my quarters or yours?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch as I raise form my grave, like a phoenix. Or a zombie.
> 
> A short, fluffy chapter to prove I'm not dead yet. It's actually been done for a week, and I feel awful for not posting it sooner. I want to assure you, gentle reader, that this fic will get done one way or another, despite my forgetful attitude and crappy work ethic. Thank you so much for sticking with me through this, and for all your kudos and comments. You're all golden!


	6. Chapter 6

“Boss, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you’ve finally lost it. One too many hits to the head, or something.”

Lavellan pursed her lips, put her hands on her hips, and huffed. “Bull, this is serious. I’m being serious.”

The din of the tavern around them seemed to dull, as if every person there were trying to eavesdrop into their conversation. Bull snapped his head up to peer around the bar. He put on a grimace, caught the attention of a few select patrons, and the noise hurriedly picked up with a stage cough and a clatter of dishes. He jerked his head to one side, felt and heard his neck pop. Lavellan grinned at the display, and when Bull grinned back, she hastily plastered her serious expression back on.

“See, Boss?” he said, “I can’t go to Halamshiral. I scare people too much.”

Lavellan gesticulated at him, crying, “And that’s why I need you there! The nobles will take one look at you and know we mean business. Besides, if all else fails, you’re big enough to do crowd control in a crisis situation.”

“I won't deny my usefulness as a blunt instrument,” Bull said, again succeeding in getting Lavellan to smile. “But you'll have Cullen there, and his men in the wings. Besides, me and formalwear? We don't exactly mix.”

“Bull, everyone’s coming,” she said.

By “everyone”, he knew she meant the companions and advisors, but the image of the literal entire Inquisition marching into the Winter Palace made Bull snicker. However, the implication set in shortly thereafter. “Wait, everyone? Solas? Sera? Dorian?” He truly laughed then, from his gut, and pantomimed wiping a tear from his eye. "That's rich."

“Don’t laugh! And the formalwear won’t be an issue. Josephine has hired this wonderful Antivan tailor, and we’re getting matching uniforms.”

"Boss," Bull said. "You are our fearless leader. I respect and admire all of the work you do for the Inquisition. But there is no way this is going to end favorably."

"Your fitting appointment is in half an hour, Bull."

Bull heaved a sigh so heavy it made the floorboards beneath him creak. "Where do I need to go."

~~~

The fitting might have been the single most comical experience the Bull had ever been through, barring the incident in which Dorian had lit his curtains on fire. Grumbling the whole way, Bull found his way to the War Room, where the large map-adorned table had been hauled to the side to make space for the tailor's pedestal, a large mirror, and several crates of fabrics and adornments. When Bull entered, he found that Dorian was off to the side of the room, chatting with Josephine. The woman was holding two different swathes of red fabric, one balled in each fist, and she was alternating holding them against the skin of Dorian's bared shoulder. She looked simultaneously contemplative and aggressive, subtly complaining at how hard it had become to find a material that would be flattering to every companion's build and complexion. The pair looked to Bull as he entered, and Dorian's sudden wolfish smirk made Bull want to bare his teeth, though he wasn't sure whether it would end in a smile or a growl.

"Oh, this will be rich," Dorian chuckled.

"That's what I said," Bull responded. He took a deep breath through the nose and out through the mouth, a technique Lavellan had insisted he use when he got antsy around more polite company. He shuffled to the tailor's pedestal, but he didn't bother to step atop it. The tailor, a tiny elven man in a royal-blue, puffy-sleeved nightmare, came scuttling out from behind a few crates a few moments later, and nearly had a stroke at the sight of Bull. Bull gave a half-wave as the man dramatically spun towards Josephine, clutching his chest with both hands.

"Lady Montilyet," he slurred, Antivan accent so heavy that the Bull was surprised he spoke common tongue at all. "I understand the Inquisition's diverse population, but I believe this is just too far out of my comfort zone."

Josephine chose to intervene, gesturing with her fabrics as she spoke. "May I remind Ser Sarto how handsomely he is being paid to clothe our valued allies? Assuredly, there are other tailors in Thedas who would work for us with much less complaint."

"Oh, no, no, no!" The elf stuttered over his words, and just as dramatically snapped back to a proper posture. "Mi dispiace, signorina. I-I assure you that I'm more than happy to..."

Josephine nodded curtly, and returned to her fabric assessment. "Now, then," she said demurely, "measure the Iron Bull. I'm sure he has important places to be."

Sarto balked at the mention of Bull's name. "I-I'm sure," he said as he frantically began unrolling a tape measure. Bull resisted the urge to laugh at the man, if barely.

Sarto ended up atop his own pedestal to reach his tape measure as tall as it needed to be. Shoulder width, horn width, chest circumference, arm length, wingspan, inseam, and various other measurements were found and written down. Bull felt like cattle being appraised for sale, and the irony of the analogy was not lost on him. The thought of wearing clothing made by the indigo-dyed Antivan didn't ease his mood. He had a vision of himself in puffy sleeves and, for the first time in years, thought he might cry.

It took half an hour for the tailor to finish his work, though it felt like an eternity. Eventually, though, the Bull was dismissed, and he and Josephine swapped so that she could speak to Sarto. As Bull approached Dorian, the mage made a show of holding his fingers out and squinting, as an artist would do to see through a viewfinder.

"Satin," he said, "I could see you in satin." When the Bull pinned him with an unamused side-glance, he held out his hands in truce before trying again. "I'm honestly surprised that you allowed yourself to be corralled into this at all."

"You know the Boss," Bull sighed, rubbing his stiff neck. "Damn persistent."

"It's just as well," Dorian said. "I would've gotten your measurements taken sooner or later. Maker knows you can't always run around in those circus tents you call pants."

"Hey," Bull whined. "They've worked for me this far."

Dorian sighed, sounding so weary and endeared at the same time that Bull couldn't help but smile. "But you've never been to Orlesian ball. These types of events demand formalwear."

"Yes, I have," Bull said. "Wasn't my cup of tea. But I'll give you that round, since I actually didn't wear circus pants. I had a shirt and everything. I ripped the sleeves off by the end of the night, but still."

The pair had begun strolling out of the war-room, and had made it past Josephine's desk in the next room before Bull's comment caused Dorian to halt his stride. "You? At an Orlesian ball?" Dorian said. "I would've paid good coin to see that."

"Oh, but you won't have to," Bull replied. "We'll be at Halamshiral in about seven weeks."

The pair exited the wing altogether and strolled through Skyhold's main hall. Bull pretended not to notice the many pairs of eyes that turned on himself and Dorian, but he could sense the mage's displeasure beside him. He subtly reached to cross the space between them, looping his arm around Dorian's waist and pulling him into his side. Dorian stiffened, eyes flashing up to Bull before he peered around the room. The staring culprits snapped their attention away and began tittering too loudly about anything other than the oddball pair now exiting the building.

"Public displays of affection make people uncomfortable," Bull said. "Want me to let go?"

Dorian deliberated, then, finally, let his shoulders relax. "No," he replied. "But I needed to get to my study. I can't go back in there for another hour at least."

"You're welcome to head back to the tavern with me," Bull said. "Or, if you'd rather spend the rest of your day sober, we can take the long way around to the library."

Dorian laughed genuinely, from his gut. "I'd prefer the latter option, if you'd please."

"Then let's take a stroll," Bull teased. He slipped his arm off of Dorian's waist and swept it grandly in front of himself, bowing a bit in the process. Bull knew Dorian would never admit it if asked, but the look Dorian gave him for the gesture could almost be called loving.

"Practicing for Halamshiral already?" The mage began a sashaying little walk forward, glancing behind to see if Bull was watching.

"Maybe," Bull replied, grinning when Dorian caught his eye. "Or maybe I just like the way you look at me when I'm polite."

"Perish the thought," tutted Dorian, and the pair made for the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a slightly short chapter, I have a quite a few things to say! For one, congratulations. You've all now been formally introduced to my favorite headcanon of all time, ever: Antiva as a Thedosian equivalent of Italy. I'll make a whole post on Tumblr detailing my theory one day, but for now, it will just live on as a side note in my DoriBull fic. Just so you all know, "mi dispiace" means "my apologies", and Sarto literally means "tailor". Whoo for putting my years of Italian classes to use!
> 
> Secondly, yes, next chapter will be Halamshiral. It is going to take me a while to write, so I'll warn you about a possible incoming hiatus. Thank you for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoy!


	7. Chapter 7

Seven weeks might have been seven days for all the preparation Bull did for Halamshiral.

The first three were spent away with the Chargers, picking up small jobs between the Storm Coast and Crestwood. They spent as much time fighting as they did traveling, cards as likely to be dealt as killing blows. It had Bull reminiscing on the days with his crew before the Inquisition. Stories that hadn’t been told in months were brought up around their cooking fires, and for a while, diplomacy was forgotten.

Bull returned to Skyhold to find it abuzz with activity. Dorian, Varric, Cassandra, and Lavellan had left sometime that Bull had been away, on emergency business. The garden was full of gossip on their whereabouts, none of which seemed substantial. The tavern was short on food, as the kitchen-hands bustled from the War Room to the kitchens endlessly. There, the advisors had holed themselves in, deep in talks and preparations for the ball. Bull was able to pick up bits and pieces from the servants as they went; the Inquisition was to be invited by Grand Duke Gaspard. Betrayal, on several fronts, was rumored, and the fate of Orlais’ ruler was on the line. Bull considered entering the talks to bring himself up-to-date on the political climate, but decided against it. He knew he’d be looking for an attack on the Empress’ throne, and perhaps an attack against the Empress herself. All else would make itself known as it became relevant.

Lavellan’s party returned a week after Bull himself did. The news of their return swept quickly through Skyhold; Bull had barely heard it whispered amongst the tavern’s patrons before the party themselves were upon them. Lavellan loudly and gracelessly shouldered the door in, yelling, “Hey, get us some drinks!” Dorian picked his way through the crowd to fall heavily and dramatically into the stool beside Bull. Cassandra and Varric found a pair of seats at the counter and soon lost themselves in discussion. Lavellan climbed the staircase to meet Sera. A few beers and a song from the Chargers later, Bull and Dorian escaped to Bull’s quarters. Bull was informed of the party’s trip between kisses, and he ended up retaining none of the story.

The next day, Lavellan’s companions began their own ball preparations. Everyone received lectures from Josephine on proper etiquette. Dorian saw it fit to teach Bull how to dance; the lessons took place in Dorian’s quarters, books and clothing for once put in their places. Bull trod on his partner’s feet countless times. Dorian had to take the lead on several occasions, and Bull could only laugh as he struggled to spin beneath Dorian’s arm. Eventually, the lessons ended with sex against the back of the door, and they decided that dancing wasn’t so important after all.

The day beginning their journey to the Winter Palace was rather anticlimactic, in Bull’s opinion. The entire party loaded into wagons drawn by handsome Clydesdale horses, as a short, masked ambassador shouted, “Transportation generously provided by Duke Gaspard himself!” Bull shared his carriage with Solas, Dorian and Varric. All in all, it was a three days’ trip, with two daily stops for bread and latrine. Bull and Solas spent the days playing verbal chess, and Dorian and Varric tittered and gossiped about various Skyhold agents. By night, Dorian propped himself against Bull’s side to sleep, while Varric and Solas claimed the padded corners of the carriage to prop themselves into. It would almost have been pleasant, if not for the cramping of the legs.

Bull could barely believe the size of the castle they were dropped off at. It was the winter home of Empress Celene- to think, that one could be affluent enough to have more than one mansion- and it seemed already full to the brim, it’s ornate, towering doors thrown open to allow people of every class in and out. The lower-class were obviously servants, carrying trunks and various plates of food. The upper-class were all masked and swathed in velvet, their preciously inlaid garments glittering in the early sunset.

“And I’m not even dressed up,” Bull said snidely, putting his thumbs beneath the lip of his wide leather belt.

Josephine bustled to him, pushing his lower back into posture and gently removing his hands from his hips. He allowed her to fix him without comment, but he grunted as he peered down at her with his good eye. “None of this,” she chided. “We are being given lodgings for the night, and the ball will occur tomorrow.”

True to her word, Josephine and the masked ambassador led the pair around the house and let them in at a much smaller back door. It seemed to have once been servants’ quarters, but was now done up in fine silk, floor scrubbed clean and mirrors hung periodically from the walls. Again the party shared rooms, with the same arrangements as their carriages. Bull silently cursed, his fantasy of having sex in the guest quarters quashed. He cursed it further when he found that the beds, built for someone of human proportions, were fixed with silken sheets and down-stuffed duvets. As he slept in them, his feet only fit onto the mattress if he bent his knees, and their rough soles repeatedly caught on the bedding, causing it to pull and gather. He abandoned all hope of rest with a sigh, wondering whether his time with the Inquisition had made him too soft.

~~~

The next day, after a disappointingly dainty Orlesian breakfast, Bull tried on his uniform for the first time. Being fully dressed felt odd. The clothes themselves fit perfectly; the scarlet jacket was wide through the shoulders and slim at the waist, morphing Bull's solid bulk into something sleek, and the black pants and boots, astoundingly, looked perfectly proportioned to Bull's body. It was simply the sensation of being covered in fabric that had Bull shimmying his shoulders, trying desperately to get them to settle more comfortably. That, coupled with the fact that he couldn't lift his arms farther than a seventy-degree angle from his body. Every complaint Bull had about the attire, though, fled his mind when he saw Dorian in his own uniform.

It was identical to all of the Inquisition agents’, but it was the air with which he held himself that made the outfit shine. The reds and blues were striking against his dark skin and hair, the brass buttons glinting to match his eyes. Dorian preened in the floor-to-ceiling mirror of the shared room, exuded confidence. Bull could only watch, bite his tongue, and imagine a hundred different ways to rip that uniform off.

Amazingly, the uniform managed to suit most every individual wearing it. Even Lavellan, who knocked politely before letting herself into the room, looked trim and dashing.

“There she is, woman of the hour,” said Solas, bowing just slightly.

“I really hope not,” she replied, shifting uncomfortably on her feet. “I just wanted to update you all before we enter. I’ve talked to Gaspard, and he believes that Empress Celene’s negotiations will be sabotaged by her handmaiden, Briala. Aside from that, we expect Venatori presence, and possible attempts on Celene’s life. We have to avoid suspicion as much as out threats do, so stay vigilant without being too overt about it.”

“Sounds simple enough, doesn’t it?” Solas said, the sarcasm in his voice stifling.

“Truly,” Lavellan replied, sounding more like Commander Cullen than herself. With a deep breath, her face became stony, as if she were donning her own mask. “Let’s show them what the Inquisition can do.”

“Nice pep talk, boss,” Varric said. “Why don’t you say it again, but this time like you think we’ll get out of this alive?”

“Don’t kid,” she replied, and with a subtle flash, revealed a dagger that she’d sheathed in her sleeve.

~~~

Bull wasn’t new to the stressors of Orlesian nobility: the eyes glinting distrustfully behind masks, the obviously-concealed whisper and giggle of ill-intentioned gossip, and the general feeling of being watched, all wrapped up in the heavy smell of exotic perfume. But as he stood at the top of a grand staircase, waiting to be introduced and paraded through the room like an Orlesian show dog, it was fairly easy to forget the familiarity, and each new stimulus buzzed like a fly in Bull’s ear.

Introductions were made person-by-person, slowly and agonizingly. Bull learned that Blackwall had earned the Silverite Wings of Honor at some point in his life, that Cullen’s middle name was Stanton, that Solas did a very good impression of a servant, and that Sera’s chosen alias for the event was Ser Mai Balsytch. He groaned, despite himself; the whole ordeal was just so contrived. He accepted his introduction quietly, trying to force the tension out of his shoulders as he descended the marble staircase. Dorian did the same after he was introduced, and he slotted in next to Bull without touching him. As the rest of the Inquisition filed in, Bull took to brushing the back of Dorian’s hand with his own, just because he could. Dorian didn’t stop him.

Cole was not introduced; in fact, Bull didn’t recall seeing him descend the stairs, but he stood with the Inquisition all the same, owlish eyes casting madly about. The sight of the kid nearly made Bull jump, but Cole simply lifted a hand and waved from the front of the line.

Once introductions were complete, the entire Inquisition made their way to the main ballroom. The crowd was overwhelming. Immediately, masked debutants began meeting members; Josephine was called to the side by a tall man with a rigid accent, Leliana caught a woman by the hands and kissed the air next to her cheeks, and Cullen was positively swarmed by women. Dorian was reluctantly pulled into a conversation with a loudly opinionated man. In observing the others, Bull hardly noticed the ring of empty space that formed around him. It only became apparent as a hand touched Bull’s elbow, and when he shuffled to the side to allow the person past with a mumbled “‘Scuse me”, the crowd beside him shuffled backwards. It was like a barrier spell had been cast around him. As the offender tapped three more times on his forearm, he peered sideways, leery…

It was simply the Inquisitor. Bull grinned down at her; he wouldn’t say he’d been startled, but her experience as a rogue had definitely shown itself as she snuck her way up to him. She beckoned to herself, an indicator that she wanted Bull to bend, and so he did. She went to her toes, lips to Bull’s ear, and said softly, “Keep an eye out for me, Bull. I don’t know what’s going on yet, but my money’s on Venatori spies.”

Bull rumbled an affirmation. “Your money? Does that mean you’re buying drinks when this shit is all over?”

He could practically hear her grin into the side of his face. “Catch me one of those bastards,” she said, “and I’ll buy your drinks for a month.” With that, she left him, flitting back into the crowd. The surrounding nobles barely batted an eye as she disappeared.

Taking advantage of his bubble of space, Bull made his way through the palace. There was the grand ballroom to get through, where countless couples twirled and spun to a lively Antivan tune. The orchestra, arranged in the corner of the room, ended their song with a flourish, and quickly transitioned into another. Bull skirted around the edge of the floor, unsurprised that no one bothered to ask for a dance. Another staircase and a hallway of windows later, Bull stumbled upon a long table, absolutely full of food. Though it could barely be called time for dinner, part of the spread had already been devoted to desserts.

This was how the Bull found himself eavesdropping on uninteresting nobles, watching the windows as guests passed through the inner garden, and picking at petit-fours. He’d seen battle in Seheron, been re-educated, acted as a spy, defected from the Qun, sunk a dreadnought. And yet there he was, dressed in silks, feeling like a bronto in a field of horses. So much for the put-upon ease; at that point, he simply did his best not to look suspicious as he peered at the people passing him.

He interest was suddenly peaked by a cold rush of winter air; Dorian was walking into the room from the inner garden, and he'd stopped to grasp hands with someone, the glass door propped open with his foot. From his distance, Bull could really only make out colors and shapes; Dorian was brown and red, slim, and the man he was greeting was pale blue, taller and rounder in a way that belied years of good eating and bureaucratic inactivity. The two tittered back and forth, and even from here, Bull could read tension in Dorian’s posture. His laughter was loud and forced, carrying over the swell of music from the ballroom. When the man had finally had enough and turned his back to leave, Dorian pulled both of his arms up, flashing what Bull could only guess was the rudest of Fereldan hand gestures.

Bull laughed so heartily that he nearly inhaled the mille-feuille he'd been chewing, and thumped himself solidly on the chest twice to dislodge the crumbs in his windpipe. He was given dirty looks by all the nobility close enough to witness his choking, but he couldn’t tell; the tears that sprung to his good eye made the whole world waver. Dorian began a fervent march into the hall, and the crowd readily gave for him. He arrived at Bull’s side to a chorus of tittering gossip, and hissed profanity at him instead of saying hello.

“Hey, ‘Vint!” Bull said, placing a wide hand over Dorian’s shoulder. When Dorian went rigid, he immediately removed it. “Making friends, I see?”

“Hardly,” Dorian huffed. “Recognized my name, he said. Wanted to know how my mother was doing.”

Bull chuckled lowly. “Who was he, anyway?”

“Some noble from Val Chevin. I didn’t bother remembering his name. I don’t know how long ago he and my mother met, but it must’ve been years if he thinks I know how she is.” He draws a hand over his face, thumbing at his thin goatee. It was a nervous gesture; he repeated it three times before waving the same hand in front of his face and saying, “Dear Andraste, I hadn’t missed these affairs.”

Bull grunted in reply, eyes trained on the retreating blue figure. The man didn’t raise any suspicion in Bull, or at least, no more than any of the other hapless nobles had. The oaf simply plowed his way into another conversation, oblivious to the fact that he was being watched. “Eh,” Bull finally concluded, and looked back to Dorian. “Hey, any interest in a dance?”

Dorian laughed abruptly, a quick bark. “Hah! Oh, that’d be a sight.” He looked up into Bull’s face, found a slight frown, and immediately mirrored it. “Were you serious?”

“I was,” Bull replied. “No problem if you don’t want to. It just looked like fun.”

Dorian rubbed one hand over his mouth again, then crossed his arms. “It’s just… the people.”

“No, I get it,” Bull said. “Guess this pair might be too much for the nobles to handle.” As he said it, he glanced pointedly to a trio of identically dressed women in the corner, who’d been furiously whispering to one another behind gloved hands. They immediately stopped, eerie and expressionless, before gathering their identical skirts and shuffling off.

After the ladies had left, Bull turned his attention back to Dorian. He was shifting from foot to foot, eyes trained on the couples disappearing to the dance floor. Suddenly, Bull had an idea. “Would you dance with me if we could find somewhere a little more private?”

“Beastly man,” Dorian said, practically without thinking.

“I really meant dancing,” Bull insisted. “Unless you’re feelin’ the other thing.”

“Hm. Well, the night’s young. And Lavellan needs us to keep watch.”

“Doesn’t have to be long. Besides, maybe the bad guys are hanging out in the wings.”

Dorian laughed again, though this laughter was warmer, more affectionate. “You will be responsible for any and all property damage.”

“Hey. I keep destruction to a minimum when I’m not home.”

The pair had begun meandering down an adjoining hallway as they spoke, where the crowd had considerably thinned. “Oh?” Dorian continued. “When you say home, you mean Skyhold? Have you grown so attached?”

Bull shrugged. “My bed’s there. My Chargers are there.” He grasped Dorian’s hand, tucked it around his own arm as if he were Dorian’s escort. “You’re there. What’s the Fereldan saying? The home is where the heart is?”

“Yes,” Dorian said softly, and after a pause, “there’s a saying to that effect in Tevinter as well.” He squeezed Bull’s arm gently.

“Why do you sound so shocked?” Bull asked. “You uncover more and more of my soft spots every day.”

Dorian hummed, like he was trying to form a thought. They’d walked a considerable distance; the last person they’d seen was a guard standing watch by a door, and even they had looked like they were just on this side of consciousness. Aside from the ornamental suit of armor they were now passing, the pair was alone. They were looping back to the servant’s quarters, if Bull’s sense of direction had any reliability, and so Bull let his shoulders relax, taking a deep breath.

“I don’t know how I feel,” Dorian finally continued, “about getting attached to Skyhold. To the Inquisition. It’s a family, of course, but we’re going to have to kill Corypheus sooner or later- don’t tell Varric I said that, we’ve got wagers going- and then what? Our little family disbands?”

“Can I let you in on a secret?” Bull said, purposefully not meeting Dorian’s eye. It piqued the mage’s interest, just as he’d intended it to, and so he continued, “I haven’t taken payment from the Inquisition since we made it to Skyhold. When I talked to Josephine, I told her we were even as long as me and my boys were getting lodgings and food, but… I’m here because I want to be. I’ll stay as long as there’s something to stay for.”

Bull looked over to find Dorian in contemplation. “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to run from the Imperium.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Running? I was under the impression you were saving them, along with the rest of Thedas.” Bull simply watched the subtle play of emotion through Dorian’s eyes, smiling softly at him when he looked up. “Besides, you’ve got to live more in the moment. Enjoy it when you can. And, speaking of which…”

The pair had reached the hallway’s farthest door, simpler than the others. Dorian walked ahead, probably to open the door, but Bull didn’t let him. He grabbed Dorian’s hand again and spun him around, and before Dorian could voice the question forming on his lips, Bull kissed him. It was slight and chaste, a nonverbal request for permission.

Dorian’s fingers brushed over Bull’s jaw. “Wait a second more, you insatiable man.”

“Can’t blame me for trying,” said Bull, and allowed Dorian to open the door. They slipped inside and shut the door behind themselves, and the clamoring noise of the ball was muffled at last.

The room before them was dim compared to the dazzling marble of the ballroom. It was definitely servants’ quarters; the only light came from a few sconces on the walls, burning low with real fire, and beyond the one they’d just passed, the hallways all lacked doors. A few trunks were pushed against the walls, bedrolls folded neatly in one corner. Bull scanned the room slowly, and therefore, he noticed the meandering smear of blood leading into the next room last.

“Ugh,” said Dorian. “That doesn’t look good.”

As he always did, Bull pushed his way to point. “No kidding.”

They stepped carefully around the bloodstain, its boundaries barely visible in the low lamplight. They didn’t have to do much sleuthing to find it’s source; the trail clearly led them around a sharp left turn and a flight of stairs. There, at the bottom, was the body of an elven servant. She was small, quite likely still a child, with mousy brown hair now clotted to her face in crimson rivulets. By the looks of it, she’d been hit hard on the left side of her skull, and her throat had been slit as an afterthought. She now stared glassily up at the dark ceiling, skin pale as the marble upstairs.

“Dear Andraste,” said Dorian. “Why in the world…?”

“Dunno,” Bull said. “But we can find out.” All around the body, there were footprints, where the careless murderer had tracked through the blood and down another corridor.

Dorian considered the trail, lips curled in disgust. “Should we tell Lavellan before we go traipsing off into the dark?”

From behind them, a familiar voice called, “No need.”

Bull spun so fast that he heard the stitching of his jacket groan, ready to snap the neck of some boastful Venatori. Dorian, too, lifted his arms as if beginning a spell. The pair relaxed, however, as Lavellan walked into their pool of light. She was being led by Cole, his hand firmly grasped around hers. She took one look at the servant’s corpse and paled, though Cole’s expression remained as vaguely saddened as it always was.

“How convenient,” said Dorian. “Gang’s all here. I take it you sensed this happening, Cole?”

“She saw too much,” said Cole. “He’d taken off his mask. She simply wanted to tell him that the servants’ quarters were off-limits. But she startled him; _‘They said no one would be here!’_ He swung his staff…”

“And killed her,” Bull finished. “Then slit her throat for good measure.”

“He had a staff, Cole?” Lavellan asked.

“A shorter one,” said Cole. “It’d been hidden in the castle for him.”

“Mage, then,” concluded Bull. “Looks like you might find some Venatori here yet, Lavellan.”

“ _We_ ,” Lavellan corrected him. “ _We’ll_ find some Venatori yet. I hope you boys finished whatever business you had upstairs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so beings Halamshiral! I hope it was worth the wait! This chapter was really difficult to write, partly because I lost the game save I was writing this fic along with, and partly because Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts is the most anxiety-inducing mission in any DA game ever. Thanks for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoy!


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